Chapter 1: The dream of fire

Lyra’s heart raced as the sky above the castle burned with an unnatural fire.

She stood alone in the ruins, her bare feet pressed against the cold, cracked marble floor. The smoke curled around her, thick and suffocating. She could barely see, but she could feel the heat—a weight on her chest, a pressure that pushed her down.

The walls of the throne room trembled as if alive, groaning under the strain of something ancient, something powerful. And then, out of the smoke, the shadows moved.

Figures appeared—dark, shifting shapes with glowing eyes that never blinked. They circled her, whispering her name in voices that seemed to come from everywhere, filling her mind with a constant, rhythmic chant: Lyra… Crown-bearer… Curse-breaker…

She flinched at the sound, her pulse quickening. There was no escape. No place to hide.

She spun around, searching for a way out, but the shadows kept closing in. A chill ran down her spine as a tall figure emerged from the smoke. He was clad in blackened armor, his face hidden beneath a dark helm. In his hand, he held a sword, its blade glowing with a fiery light, illuminating the darkened room.

Lyra took a step back, but her feet wouldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot.

The man raised his sword.

Before she could react, a surge of heat exploded around her. Her skin burned. The world was spinning, the sound of flames roaring in her ears. The figure advanced, his sword raised higher, and everything around her melted into blinding white light.

Lyra jolted awake, gasping for breath, her heart pounding in her chest. The room around her was quiet. The early morning light filtered through the cracks in the old shutters, casting long shadows on the floor. The air was cool, but her skin still felt hot from the remnants of the nightmare.

She wiped the sweat from her brow and sat up, rubbing her eyes. This dream—it had returned again. The same one. Each time, it felt more real. The man with the sword. The crown. The shadows that whispered her name.

Lyra glanced down at her wrist, where a faint silver crescent mark sat just above her palm. It had been there since the day she was born—a constant reminder of the curse that had bound her to a fate she had never wanted.

Her twenty-first birthday.

The mark was no ordinary birthmark. It was a symbol of the curse that would claim her life unless she could find the mythical Crown of Shadows.

She had heard the stories, the whispers in the taverns, the warnings from the old women in the village. Find the crown, and the curse would be broken. Fail, and die by sunset.

But Lyra had always believed the crown was a myth, a fairy tale told to frighten children. After all, she wasn’t royal. She wasn’t special. Just a girl trying to live a quiet life far from the dangers of royalty and magic.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Lyra?” The voice of Aster, the innkeeper’s daughter, floated through the wood. “A letter came for you. No name. No seal.”

Lyra’s stomach twisted. A letter? She wasn’t expecting anything.

She threw off her blankets and rushed to the door. Aster handed her a folded piece of parchment, the edges singed as if it had been touched by fire. Lyra’s fingers trembled as she unfolded it.

No seal. No name. Just a single sentence written in bold gold ink:

“The crown calls to its queen. The shadows are rising.”

Her pulse quickened. The letter seemed to burn in her hands, its words searing into her mind. It was no longer just a story. It was real. She wasn’t safe. And something far bigger than her was about to unfold.

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